Marcus Slease is a (mostly) surrealist, absurdist, and fabulist writer from Portadown, N. Ireland and Utah.
His latest book is Play Yr Kardz Right (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017).
He lives in Madrid, Spain.
Visit his website for more info:
marcusslease.weebly.com

I want all these virtual kisses in person in the flesh on the flesh as soon as possible, as soon as the old village pub closes for the night and we rub chinswith all the sleeping shamans, built-up, maybe not, although, I don’t think solooks like it might all come together

dull ache in the nose, the truth

of something is a smoking tunnel, taking for granted, of course, absence, the empty bottlethrown into

a body of water

you realise this instant, this instance, is a key-hole, a tunnel with a squint of light, yes takenfor granted, studiedunder, the moment as we onceknew it renouncesour earthly labourbefore beingimpounded, poundedout intoperformance

wood, green, wood green, green wood, woodmidgets and giants and dusted pollen, and dutieswounds, wounds of a mistress, of a city, thisenergy will eat or beeaten, London is the world’s navel, the world’s onion, the world’s housing little maidssurrounded by hard light, Londonwood green, north, on the line, out of time the man on the cooling boardsaid be careful of the wire, saidIreland, and Irelandis in north London, in Halloway,a stabbing here or there, I’malways looking for you in second-handlinguine shops, my back, watchit, watch what comes backin the clearing, in the dustof the city, in the wood, in thegreen, in the hard light, inthe north, again.

if I share my consciousness everyonewill rob me, if I share this dislocationwho will centre me, if I share thispost-immigrantflim flam flum, this shared outnumberingthis shared hard light

these scene speaks are designed in Georgian red brick with green and red doors.East Belfast: Van Morrison: Georgie Bestmy defect is a diamond.the heart is a restraint, a dam to hold back the blood, blood murals are forthcoming Stevie is a Chihuahua and he stole my toothbrush but I am inside a post-bomb haze thinking sad scenes legless man in a blue van and sandbagged checkpoints: six-year-old boy in the coal shed with a lump on his headsix-year-old boy unlatching the gate and walking three milesto bus station telling driver take meto my Granny’sage 34 and back to where theI began crossing consciousness: revel to reveal, sludge & drudge & drift in the mind-craze word-mop, all things equal this head doesn’t write well

Hailto the Thief, shook it and broke it, lostit and clipped it with minimalstyle undersellinga vibratto that grates